Tom's Memories
by history lady 24
Summary: Follow Tom as he remembers falling in love with Sybil Crawley all over again in the days following the birth of their daughter. Much of this story will be a series of lost moments from Season Two, when life was, amazingly, comparably simple. **Contains major season three spoilers**
1. Chapter 1

_It was not my intention to write this. After seeing last night's episode, though, I could think of nothing else. My intention for this week was to work on a new set of Season Two Sybil/Tom fics about some moments of slight naughtiness along the way in their relationship, to be called Forbidden Pleasures. At present, though, I needed something more serious, more solemn. So I wrote this small bit, below, as the prologue to what comes next – whatever that is. The chapters I'll share in this segment will be some of Tom's memories of Sybil, largely from moment unseen before. I'm hoping that many of them will be happy. Others, though, will probably be sad. I suspect I will end up writing them in a flashback format, as I did before, with _**Reflections, The Night of the Dinner**_. Many of you responded positively to that set of stories, for which I'm very grateful. _

_My biggest challenge right now is to figure out right now if any of these memories will be told through Sybil's eyes, or if they will only be told through Tom's, or simply in third person fashion. If you have any opinion on this, please feel free to weigh in. _

**Tom's Memories – Prologue**

_Downton Abbey, Season Three, Just After Episode Five_

His shoulders were shaking again by the time he reached the door. He'd cried so much in the past few days that he wondered how it was that there were tears left. They seemed to be his constant companion, both in the still of the night and the harsh bright light of the day.

The first day afterward he found it impossible to leave their rooms. He found himself either there, in the room where she had died, or in the adjoining nursery, holding his daughter. The first room so cold, so tomblike, and the other so warm, filled with the crackle of a hot fire and the coos of an infant child. One the complete opposite of the other.

And there was a third room, a closed door along the corridor, which he could not bear to face. It was the room where they had stayed at Downton during their previous visits. The room where they had made love, for the last time, before the baby was born. The room where he had last seen her lovely body, which she had given so freely to him, in the moonlight. The room where they had reached the height of passion together, he and she, united by their love, and the protruding bump of their baby.

He'd nearly run past that door, earlier, in his haste to pass it. It had been so hard – so damned, sodding hard, to believe it was all true. But he'd watched it all. He knew it was true. He'd held her, cried to her, tried to will the life back into her as she gasped for breath, her body convulsing on the bed. But it had all been for naught. She'd died, she'd left him, and their daughter, and there was no way to bring her back.

Tom's first thought, staring with unbelieving eyes at Sybil – _his Sybil – _lay disturbingly still on the bed, was that he should be with her. A brief dream of dying passed across his mind. He didn't know that he really believed in an afterlife. Yet in that moment, he knew that if she was dead, than he should be too, afterlife or no. There simply was no life to live without her.

But then, suddenly, their daughter's cry filled the air, and he knew that he could not join her in the grave. No. He had to live, to push forward, to fight for both of them, now, for their daughter's sake. He had to love her, provide for her, nurture her, encourage her and protect her for himself and for her, his forever beautiful, young bride.

He'd only left the house once, since she died, for the funeral. Never had the Downton church seemed so cold, its Anglican rites so foreign. Lord Grantham had been firm that Sybil be buried in the faith of her childhood, the faith of the English. Tom didn't argue, knowing that while Sybil had been insistent that their child be baptized Catholic, she herself had not yet converted.

In the stillness of the church, with only the sound of the vicar's voice and the whimper of tears, Tom closed his eyes and willed himself to smell the incense, to hear the Latin, of the funeral rite he knew. If there was a God, he knew that he would find Him there, in the liturgy that was as ancient as time.

But there was to be no comfort for him. No comfort in the chapel, no comfort in the graveyard. No comfort as he stood, completely alone, at the edge of her grave, as the dirt was thrown unto her coffin. Gone. Dead. Buried. His Sybil, his beautiful girl, beneath the cold earth of England.

As he stood there, his body shaking, the hands of both of his sister-in-laws resting on either arm, he began to fell a dark bitterness inside. Here. She had to be here, of all places. In England. At Downton. Buried in her family's plot.

There would be no cemetery, in Ireland, where father and daughter could go and visit her tomb on Sunday afternoon walks. He would not be able to go there on her birthday and lay a bouquet of spring lilacs on her grave. There would be nothing of her in Dublin, for him, when he returned. She was here, forever English, and he would be there, forever Irish. Their daughter - their lovely, beautiful, tiny, precious daughter, the only link between their worlds.

While he never could have admitted it, a part of Tom wondered that day if he could ever return to Ireland. A part of him wondered, deep down, if he would ever be able to get on the boat again, and leave her behind.

_In exile, in England. _He was trapped here, now, by the law, and by the beautiful woman who lay under the ground. Trapped, as he had never, ever been before.

Yet there was one place, ironically, that felt like home. And that was where he found himself on that dreary afternoon. Pratt gone, his daughter asleep inside the house, warm in her bassinet, he walked inside. The smell of oil and metal and rubber filled the air.

The memories washed over him.

And suddenly she was there, before him, twenty-one and beautiful, in her black and gold gown.

…_and you're my ticket._

He sank down onto the running board of the Renault and let the memories consume his mind.


	2. Pretty As A Picture

_Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter of this story and left comments. I know we're all still hurting. I hope you'll see this story as a sweet memory, which was my intent in writing it._

* * *

Tom's finger reached out to trace the small rectangle on the wall. The paint was darker here, where the sun had not touched it for the space of three years.

His hand trembled slightly, his skin a harsh white against the dark green walls in the morning light.

_Morning. It had always been morning then. _Morning, when the world seemed new, and all of the possibilites of the day, of the world, were new and just waiting, like a fresh pink rose blossoming for the first time. A rose, so beautiful, so pure, giving off the fragrance of love and hope and limitless possibility.

How many mornings had he awoken in this bed, in this tiny room, his heart and mind full of her? How many times, over those years, was she his first thought as he lay there in the small bed, his mind a tumult of desire? How many times had he laid there, his eyes still closed, trying with every fiber of his body to hold onto the last moments of his dreams, when she had come to him and touched him, caressed him, made love to him, in the darkness of the night?

How many times?

There had been so many dreams. Dreams full of her milky white skin. Dreams of her hand in his, after the garden party. Dreams of them living together, in a flat in Ireland, having dinner, playing with their babies, going to bed together, during the years when he had barely dared hope.

He had often wondered, during those years, if his dreams were a blessing or a torment. There were days when he awoke cursing, ready to throw his pillow across the room out of sheer frustration and the agony of waiting.

Waiting.

Always, always waiting.

And then one day, magically, it seemed, his dreams came true. In the garage where she said yes. In the cottage, where they planned their escape from Downton. In Ireland, where they wed.

She'd come to him, last night again, in a dream. All pure and white in her wedding dress, her head thrown back, laughing, happiness radiating from every pore of her body. He'd awakened from the dream shaking, sweating, crying out for her, to her, trying desperately, desperately, to will her, somehow, back to him. Just for one more moment. Just so he could touch her again, hold her close, kiss her lips one last time.

Tom exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping forward in defeat. He still could not fathom the fact that she was gone, that he would never see her again, save for the reflection of her that he saw when he looked into the deep blue eyes of their daughter, their Sybie.

When he'd awoken this morning he'd gone to seek her out. She was in the nursery, of course, being watched over by the nursemaid that they'd hired in the village. It hurt him so to think of his daughter - her daughter - their daughter - being suckled by a stranger. Sybil had been so adamant that she would nurse her own child, despite the protests that she knew her parents would voice.

The nurse had just been returning Sybie to her bassinet when Tom knocked at the door and entered the room. Sybie was mewing sleepily when he walked over to where she lay, her tiny body nestled in a thick mound of white blankets. Tom had reached down to her to caress her face. The gesture caused her to open her eyes wide again, briefly, before she drifted off to a contented sleep.

Those eyes. The color his own, but the shape more like her mother's. Tom would never, ever, as long as he lived, forget those eyes. So many times he stared into them, wondering what she was thinking, trying to imagine the thoughts that she could not, or would not, voice.

He had awoken himself to those same eyes here, in his tiny old cottage.

He'd placed the photo there, on the small chest next to his bed, the evening he'd found it. And there it sat for the next three years, the last thing he saw in the evening, the first sight to greet his eyes in the morning.

* * *

"Tell me about your family. You have brothers and sisters, I assume?"

Tom looked up from the brass light he was polishing and grinned at the young woman sitting on his work bench who was watching him expectedly, her feet swinging slightly as she watched his hands at work.

"Of course. We are Irish. And Catholic. Everyone has big families back home."

"How many do you have?"

"How many do you think?" Tom teased.

Sybil blinked. "I don't know. There's more than three of you, I'm sure."

Tom laughed. "Aye. Seven. Or there were, at least. There were twin boys born before me, little lads named Patrick and Liam, that died just a few days after being born. Otherwise there's Claire, Caitlin, Sean, and Brigid and I. She's the baby - Brigid is."

Sybil's eyes were large. "Seven!"

"Have you never known a family with that many children before?" Tom had a hard time believing this, but asked anyway.

"I...I suppose so. I mean, there are families on the estate who have many children. I honestly can't tell you how many, though, in most cases." She paused. "And I can't think of anyone that we grew up with that had that many brothers and sisters..." her voice trailed off.

_Yet another difference between us._ The words floated through his mind, mocking him. He tried to banish it by talking, as he normally did. "Did you ever wish you had another - sibling - I mean?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "I don't know if I wanted more of them, but I wouldn't have minded different sisters, sometimes. A brother would have been nice, I suppose. Though there was always Patrick. Our cousin - the heir before Matthew. He spent a lot of time here when we were children. He never wanted much to do with me, though. He was older than Mary by a year, and seemed to always be chasing her. When he was around they - Mary and Patrick, I mean - used to try and sneak off and leave Edith and I behind. Then Edith would get mad and try to join them, which meant that I was left alone most of the time. Not that I minded, really. It was easier to play by myself than listen to their bickering. That's why I started to read so much, I think. It was a pleasant way to fill all of those quiet hours."

"Quiet hours!" Tom laughed. "What I wouldn't have given for more quiet hours! Our house was always full of noise, brimming with Ma's sisters and cousins and the neighborhood kids. The only time I could ever read was at night, in bed. And even then Sean would complain about the candle burning."

"Did you share a room with him?" Sybil's face flushed prettily at the question, as though she hadn't quite intended to let the words slip from her mouth.

_Talking about bedrooms with the youngest daughter of the house. The things we say..._ Tom's gaze inadvertently flickered towards the door of the garage. _Still closed. Good. _

"Of course. There were only two proper bedrooms, really. Ma slept in one, with the girls, and Sean and I had the other. They always envied us, because there were only two of us in the room."

"And did you..." Her eyes turned from Tom's and towards the wall behind him, her blush now deepening.

"Share a bed? Yes. But it wasn't that bad. Rather nice, really, on the cold nights." Tom looked back down at the headlight, suddenly a bit embarrassed himself at his comment. _Cold nights, Tom. Really! You would have to say something about that, in front of her, of all people..._

"Ahem." Sybil cleared her throat slightly, her stilled feet beginning to swing again slightly. "And Sean - where is he now? In Ireland, still?"

"He's actually in Liverpool, working in a garage. He's the first one in the family who started driving, back when he was in service, in Dublin, with a family. He taught me, then, when I was a little older."

"And your sisters?"

"Claire's the housekeeper in a small house outside of Dublin. She thinks herself right smart. And then Brigid and Caitlin are both married now."

"I see." Sybil watched his face carefully. "Do you miss them?"

"I do. Sometimes." Tom stopped polishing and crossed his arms over his chest. "Caitilin and Claire both write me regularly, but Sean's not much for that, and Brigid's just had her first babies - twins - so she has her hands full."

"So you're an uncle, then?"

Tom smiled. "Yes. In fact Ma included a picture of Brigid and David, her husband, with the babies, in her last letter. She asked her to have another one made so she could send it to me, so I could see them."

Sybil smiled warmly.

"Would you like to see it?"

The moment words were out of his mouth he felt like a fool. _Would you like to see it? Yes - because she cares to see a picture of your little sister with her family. People she's never met, who live on the other side of the sea. Why in heaven would she..._

"Yes!" Sybil's reply cut off Tom's thought before he could finish it.

He blinked. Wiping his hands on the rag, he walked across the garage to stand nearer to her. Laying the rag on the bench, he watched her face intently. He couldn't quite read her gaze, and it was unnerving him slightly. _Why would she care? Is it just that she likes babies, I suppose, like any girl, or does she want to see them, maybe, because they are my family? Because she wants to know more about me. About..._

"Right. Wait here a moment. It's in my cottage, just..." Tom gestured towards the back of the garage.

Sybil nodded, her eyes darting from his hand back to his face.

He returned a moment later, the precious photo in his hand. Smiling a little shyly, he stretched out his hand towards Sybil's.

Slender white fingers grasped the bottom of the card, covering up the name of the studio, printed in delicate script at the bottom. She held it up to examine it better, her expression something that Tom couldn't quite read.

"Photographs make it easier, being away from home, I mean. I don't expect I'll see Brigid's little ones for many years, probably, but this way I can see them every day, in a manner of speaking..." He was babbling and he knew it.

Sybil nodded. "Mama used to have us photographed every year. She'd send them to Grandmama, in America. I remember one year when she sent us a photograph of herself in the mail, in reply. I wasn't very old at the time, I don't think, and Mama tells the story sometimes that when I first saw it, I tried to hug it, thinking that somehow Grandmama could feel it in America."

_She understands what it is to miss her family. _The thought had never occurred to Tom before.

"Photographs are - well - they're special, aren't they?"

* * *

He'd found the photograph many months later, not too long after Sybil had returned from York. She was wearing her nurses uniform in it, her head held high with pride, a smile on her face. He'd always wondered if she'd had others made, or if it was the only one.

He'd never forget the evening he found it. Sybil had had a long, hard shift at the hospital, and had snapped at him when he'd taken her the lunch that Mrs. Patmore had prepared. She'd apologized later, when they were in the motor, driving back to Downton.

He was never quite sure why he'd gone back to the garage again that evening, so late. It might have been near to midnight. He'd been unable to sleep, and instead of sitting up and reading, as he normally would, he found himself in the garage, puttering about, cleaning up the workbench.

She'd left it on the driver's seat, in the Renault. It was in a heavy cream envelope, his name written in her spidery hand on the front. "Tom"

His hands were shaking as he picked it up. Was it a letter? Was she turning him down, this way, because she couldn't bear to do it in person?

When he pulled back the envelope flap and looked inside, he could have sworn that his heart stopped for a moment. There she was. God, she was beautiful. Beautiful, lovely, professional, intelligent, brave, beautiful...

His fingers reached out to caress her face, the soft skin of her cheeks. He could almost feel them, so smooth, so perfect.

She'd had the picture enhanced with color, her eyes blue, her hair dark, her cheeks flushed. It was so lovely. So very lovely.

His hands still trembling, he turned the photograph over.

'_With Affection, Sybil'_

Not Lady Sybil.

Sybil.

Just Sybil.

With Affection.

Affection.

What did that mean?

He remembered tucking the photograph back into the envelope, and nearly running back to his cottage. He placed it on the small chest near his bed, where he could see it easily as he lay on the thin mattress.

He could not even begin to imagine how many times he had looked at that blessed photograph over the years. On the nights he couldn't sleep, he stare at it in the dark, secrets and longings pouring from his lips that he barely understood himself. He'd greet it sometimes, in the mornings when he was giddy, as he imagined he might greet her someday - _Good morning, my darling. Good morning, love._

It had been his constant compantion for so long - that beautiful, lovely photograph. And then one cold morning, when he'd returned to Downton in the early hours of the day exhausted, and even worse, alone, it was gone.

He'd wondered at the time if Mary had sent Anna out to fetch it when they arrived back from the Inn. He had no idea how she would have known it was there, but he had long ago learned that she was a woman who seemed to see and know everything around her in a glance. He'd never hated her more then in that moment.

As Tom stood in his old cottage, his hand still on the wall, as though willing the photograph to miraculously appear again, his eyes began to cloud, and his tears once more fell. God. That was all he could do, it seemed, was cry. Cry, and shout, his emotions constantly at their breaking point.

Dropping his hand from the wall to the chest, he ran his hand along the scarred surface. In that moment, his nail caught in a small seam near the back of the chest.

He blinked, trying to clear his eyes. There was a seam there, right below where he had propped up her photograph, many years before.

In an instant Tom was on his knees, dragging the chest away from the wall, searching to see where that crack led.

At first he didn't see where it could have gone. Then, as he passed his hand over the back of the chest, he felt, and then saw, what had happened. At some time, the original wood on the back of the chest had split. Instead of removing the piece, though, and replacing it, someone had simply added a second board to the back of it. That board was what formed the lip at the top of the chest, in the back, where he had propped up the photograph.

Which meant that it could have fallen down in.

Between the two boards.

Into the chest.

Which meant it might still be there.

His photograph of Sybil - his beautiful, lovely, sweet Sybil, was there. It had to be. It had to have fallen, that evening, when he was hastily packing, his mind too full of anticipation to register what had happened.

Scrambling up from his spot on the floor, Tom ran out of the cottage to the garage. It was empty, blessedly. He grabbed the first large screwdriver he could find and ran back into the cottage. Attacking the piece of wood at the top, he wedged the screwdriver down into it the crevice and leaned hard, the wood splintering underneath the force.

In a moment, the offending board was off. And there she was, smiling at him, the photograph card lying face up on the floor. He reached down, wonderingly, and picked it up as though it was the most valuable treasure ever found on earth.

Her blue eyes.

There.

Smiling at him again.

Her words rushed back to him again. ' ..._thinking that somehow Grandmama could feel it in America.'_

Lifting the card to his chest, he embraced it, praying that somehow Sybil could feel it, wherever she was.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! One of the wonderful things about the early 20th century is that nearly everyone had access to photographers. I like to imagine Sybil in York, so proud of the new skills that she's acquiring, running off one afternoon to have a photo taken in her new uniform. And of course, no one would love a photo of her like that, every inch the lady and the nurse, like Tom. _

_xoxo_


	3. Mother of Us All

_This scene was inspired by the preview to 3.06, when I saw it last Sunday. I wrote part of the story last week, knowing that I would probably not finish it if the actual Christening aired as a part of 3.06 tonight. As Fellowes did not choose to include the scene, though, I decided to finish this story and share it with you. _

_A brief note to any Catholic readers. As a Protestant who has a great deal of Catholic family, I have visited my share of Catholics Churches over the years, and like to think myself relatively well versed in the traditions of the Catholic creed. If I misrepresented any rites of Catholicism below, though, I do apologize._

* * *

The censor swung before him, its long golden chain glistening in the candlelight. In a moment the perfume of the spices began to fill the air, and he breathed in deeply, as though it could calm his soul.

"_Da pacem, Domine. Da pacem, Domine, in diebus nostris," _the clear voice of a choir boy could be heard in the distance, from the front alter.

_Da pacem._

_Da pacem, Domine._

_Peace, Lord. Give us peace._

He looked down at the small bundle in his arm, and then to the three faces around him, all a mixture of happiness and grief.

_Give us peace, Lord. Give us peace_

A sound came from the blanket and Tom gazeded down into the blue eyes of his daughter_. Just like Sybil's. _The eyes stretched open a bit wider, and then suddenly closed as a tiny sneeze rushed from her nose. "Achoo!"

_So very like Sybil._

He knew that if there was a God, if there was a way for her to look down from heaven, that she was there today. Somewhere, somehow, looking down over them, keeping watch, smiling on her daughter and her husband.

Tom watched, spellbound as the priest stepped forward and began to pour the Holy Water on their daughter's small brow.

"In Nomine Patri, et Fili, Et Spiritus Sancti."

* * *

"Tom? Oh, thank God."

He turned around to see Sybil standing on the steps of Ripon's Cathedral, her posture a bit awkward as she balanced on the steps.

"Lady Sybil? What are you doing here?"

She offered him a grateful smile. "I took the bus in. Anna said that you were here, with Papa, and I wanted to be sure that I made it before the church closed for the evening."

"I see," Tom responded, though the scene before him still did not make much sense. Why was Sybil going into a Catholic church?

Tom began talking up the stairs towards her. His Lordship would not be out of his meeting for another hour, and whatever she was doing, he preferred the thought of being with her to just continuing to walk through town on his own.

_And it's probably for the best he is. I can't imagine, whatever reason Sybil has to be going into a Catholic Church, that he'd be too pleased. _

A small smile played on Tom's lips. _Not that having me escort her would be any better, I suppose._

"Thank you ever so much." Sybil spoke softly as Tom stopped to stand one step below her. At this level they were eye to eye. "I don't really quite know what it will be like, inside, but I had to come. One of the soldiers at the hospital died last night. I wasn't there, with him, but I'd cared for him quite a bit the last few days, and he asked me, last afternoon, before I left, if when he died, I would go to the cathedral and light a candle for him." She paused, a melancholy look on her face. "And I told him yes, of course. So here I am." She made a small gesture with her hand.

Tom nodded. _Of course. It was just the sort of thing that she would do._

"The only trouble is, I've never been in the Cathedral before, and I don't know quite what I'm supposed to do."

_We are so very different._ As if he needed to be reminded again. _Yet here she is, trying to bridge that gap again, not giving it the slightest thought that this is not her own way, and that her family would not be pleased if they knew. _

He smiled at her. "Would you like me to go in with you, then? And show you how it's done?" _And take you into my world?_

"Yes, please." She swallowed and nodded once, her gaze holding fast to him.

"Allow me." He wanted to reach for her hand, to tuck it in his arm. But he could not, here on the open street. Instead, he put a hand up as she turned around towards the door, his fingers still a few inches from the small of her back, but making the gesture, nevertheless. When they approached the door he stepped forward to open it for her, accepting her soft thanks as she stepped inside.

The moment Sybil stepped inside her eyes flew upward to the high Gothic arches flying above. Her mouth opened slightly, and a look of wonder filled her eyes. "It's beautiful!" she whispered, turning to face Tom as the motion he was making caught her attention in the corner of her eye.

_Forehead, chest, left, right._ It had been several years since he'd been in a Catholic Church, but the instinct was still there. The Holy Water felt cool on his fingertips.

_I wonder what she's thinking?_

"Should I?" She asked the question softly, and there was a bit of hesitation in her voice.

"You don't have to. In fact the priest would probably say that you shouldn't, as you're not Catholic."

Sybil nodded. "What should I – where shall we go?" She turned again to face the large beautiful open space before her. Her question trailed off as she began to look around again, her large blue eyes unable to resist the urge to take all of it in.

Watching her, Tom breathed in deeply. _Yes, it even smelled the same. _He'd always loved the incense as a boy, the way it seemed to surround everyone and envelope them into some great mysterious cloud.

Somewhere in the front of the church a voice began singing. The sound of the voice, so small on its own, began to dance off the hard stone columns and floors, growing in size exponentially. Sybil stepped forward, as thought drawn by the magic of the sound.

_Click, click._ Her heels beat out a tiny tattoo as she walked forward and up the center apse. Tom watched her, spellbound, suddenly aware of where she was.

_She's walking up the center aisle, as though she was at a wedding. As though she was a bride, walking forward to meet her groom…_

He felt his heart lurch. _Oh dear God, please God, please…_

In that instant she turned around and gave him a look that he couldn't quite understand.

He walked forward quickly, suddenly wanting to be at her side. When he caught up to her she stopped and tilted her head upward ever so slightly towards his face.

_As if for the kiss._ The images were tumbling before Tom's eyes now. _Sybil, in a white dress. Sybil, wearing a wedding veil. Sybil, flowers on her arm, as she reached out to clasp his hand, the gold wedding band on her ring finger catching the light of the candles._

Her voice brought him back to the present. "Where do I need to go?"

Tom blinked. "There –" he gestured towards a small side chapel where a statue of the Virgin stood. "There, where the candles are burning."

"Thank you." Sybil turned towards the small area. "Will you, please, come with me?"

"Of course." Tom followed her as she walked across the nave towards the small bank of light.

As she approached the candles, her pace became slower. She stopped just a few feet in front of the alter rail. "Please," she turned to Tom. "Tell me what it means. Why it meant so much for him to have a candle lit."

Tom cleared his throat softly. He looked first at the statue of the Madonna before him, holding her infant son, and then to Sybil. "We believe that the soul, when someone dies, does not always go straight to heaven. If there is any sin on the person's heart, the church says that their soul must be purified in purgatory. Those of us who are left here, afterwards, can pray for their souls, with the saints, and help them through that time."

"And do you believe that?" Sybil asked quietly, a slightly puzzled expression on her face.

"I don't know. When my da died – " he paused. He'd never told her any of this. He'd never spoken of his father to her before. "What my da died, Mam went to church for him, everyday, for a long time. She often took us with her. I prayed for him, but I always found myself wondering if it did any good." A faraway look came over his face. "Sometimes I wonder, if it's a tradition to comfort those who are left behind, and give them a way to handle their grief."

Sybil nodded her head once. "And the Virigin Mary? Is there any particular significance to having her statue here?"

"Aye." The word came out heavily accented. "She is our mother, who watches over us all, and cares for those who are missing someone. She hears the prayers and adds her own, when they go up to God."

"Is that why the Catholics call her the Mother of Us All?"

"Aye." The question surprised Tom slightly.

Sybil ducked her head and cast her eyes to the floor for a moment. "I remember reading a book once, in Papa's library, that talked about the times the Anglicans and Catholics were fighting, during the Elizabethan era. There was a bit about the Virgin, and her significance to both faiths."

"Creeds."

Sybil turned her head slightly upward again and caught the intense stare in Tom's eyes. "Creeds, then."

"Both Catholics and Anglicans are Christians. We're not that different."

A smile crept onto her lips. "Perhaps not, but I still don't understand the candles." She gestured before her.

"The candles give light to our prayers. When a Catholic lights a candle, their prayers will continue on until the light burns out." Tom stepped forward to the rail before the candle. He reached out and picked out a candle that was already lit. "Would you like me to?"

"Let me help." Sybil's voice was barely a whisper as she reached out and put her own small hand over Tom's. Slowly, each breathing a little quickly, they grasped the candle tightly, first holding it upright, just for a moment, and then tipping it slightly towards another that was not yet lit.

The flame caught from the burning wick to the fresh quickly, and for a moment there were two flames, one inside of the other.

A moment passed and then Tom pulled the candle back slowly, Sybil's hand still resting lightly on his. Together they placed the first candle back into its original place.

Neither spoke for a moment as they watched the candles burn. Finally Tom noticed Sybil's lips begin to move, and he found himself watching her intently as she prayed, her eyes moving from the warm glow of the candles up to the beautiful painted face before her.

_My own Madonna._ The words flooded Tom's mind as he watched her, the gentle glow of her face in the candlelight not that dissimilar to the rosy cheek on the Virgin's face above.

* * *

"There. Just as she wanted." Mary stepped forward to stand next to Tom and smiled at her niece.

"Yes." Tom nodded. This was what Sybil had wanted – what they'd both wanted. Knowing that somehow made this day easier.

"Thank you for letting us come with you." Matthew spoke this time, nodding his head towards first Mary and then Edith, who stood on the other side of Tom.

"I'd glad you were willing."

"Not willing," Edith spoke. "Pleased. Honored."

Tom smiled. "Yes. Thank you, all the same."

"Of course." Matthew reached to put his hand behind Mary. "Shall we?"

Mary gestured towards Tom, her eyebrow arching in question.

" Go on, please. I just want a minute." Tom looked from Matthew and Mary to the small bundle in his arms, which was now cooing. A tiny fist broke free of the white blanket and struck at the air. Tom brought his finger up to caress it. The tiny hand thrust open and grabbed at his finger, latching on tight.

"We'll see you outside, then." Edith stepped forward and began walking towards the door, followed by Matthew and Mary.

Tom stood still for a moment, his entire attention focused on the sweet face of his daughter – _our daughter – _in his arms_._ When he heard the door close he brought his head up and looked around. Seeing that they were alone, his feet began to move towards the small chapel of the Virgin.

There were two candles burning at the alter when he approached it, creating just enough light to illuminate the holy face above them. He could feel his eyes began to fill again as he looked up at her, and then back to the face of the motherless child in his arms.

"_The Mother of Us All." _Tom could hear her words again, the sound of her voice coming back to him in the darkness.

Slipping his finger of Sybie's grip, he reached for one of the candles and used it to light another, the flame giving birth to another light. His hands shook as he replaced it.

_And then the two were three._

In that instant Sybie cooed again, a soft sweet sound.

His body shaking in silent sobs, Tom looked down at the tiny, smiling bundle in his arms, and then up to the beautiful woman standing before him, her arms reaching out to embrace her children.


	4. A Letter to Juliet

_Thank you all for stopping back for another segment of Tom's memories. While this series is rather bittersweet to write, I am very much enjoying plumbing Tom's mind and heart for moments that he and Sybil shared along the path of their courtship. I hope that you enjoy this next little bit, which incorporates a tradition that dates back to the late 19__th__century – the sending of letters to Juliet._

_Please leave a review if you have a moment!_

"Sssshhh. Hush my sweet, hush my darling." Tom whispered the words softly into his daughter's tiny pink ear.

Another cry came from her mouth.

"Sssshhh. You'll wake your family. You must be quiet, my sweet." Cradling the baby tight to him, Tom moved hurriedly down the large staircase, anxious to be away from the galleries upstairs where the Crawley family slept.

_Or tried to sleep._ Tom suspected that he might not be the only one awake to hear Sybie's distress. Yet he was the only one who rose to check on her, his newly attuned parent sense waking him the moment of Sybie's first cry.

He'd tried to settle her in the nursery first, but as he became increasingly anxious over her continued discontent, he'd decided that if he needed to soothe her, walk with her, hold her, whatever it took – then he might as well do it in a place where he was comfortable, in a place where the ghost of her mother might just linger near.

Thus Tom found himself creeping down the stairs in the darkness, his path lit only by the moon shining in through the tall windows.

At the base of the stairs his feet turned automatically, sure of their path. This was the one place where he nearly always felt safe in the house.

It was no t quite the same, though, during the daytime. When the sun shone in through the windows the room became a different place. Perhaps it was because the daylight brought in the others – Robert or Matthew, working at the desk, the housemaids, plumping pillows and dusting, the Dowager, having a quiet, if determined, conversation with a family member that she wanted to sway.

Tom pushed open the door to the room with his shoulder. The moment he crossed the threshold Sybie's cries seemed to soften, and as he moved to sit down on one of the red couches near the remains of the fire, she began to coo softly.

"There, there, my love." Tom smiled at the tiny face before him, the fists that had broken free of the blanket.

_So like her mother._ The thought flooded Tom's mind yet again as he stared into the tiny blue eyes and brushed his hands over the silky dark curls that framed the milk white face. _So beautiful, so perfect._

_I wonder if she can feel her here?_

Tom could. In the first days after Sybil was laid in her lonely English grave, Tom felt so terribly alone. He trudged through the days as though sleep walking, his mind a mixture of pain, defensiveness, and grief. Even that, though, was not as bad as the nights, and his too-large, empty bed. How many times had he rolled over in his sleep to hold Sybil, and had awoken only to find his arms grasping at air, the space where her body should be cold.

It was during those restless nights that he began to make his visits here, downstairs. The library was peaceful in the dark, the moonlight barely touching the spines of the books. Here he could feel her presence, somehow, and not be quite so grieved.

They had made love here, once, when they returned to Downton for Mary and Matthew's wedding. It was a fantasy that both had dreamed of for a long time. The memory brought a smile to Tom's face as he remembered that night, the pair of them sneaking down like naughty children with blankets and pillows from their room upstairs. They'd begun on the couch but had ended up on the floor, in a nest of warmth before the fire, the smell of leather bindings and the many memories of their 'accidental' library meetings over the years surrounding them.

"She was so special, your mam." Tom whispered the words to his smiling daughter. "Anything that she touched turned to gold, for me. She was love itself. And I know that she loves you, so very much."

A soft sigh came from the bundle in his arms.

_I wonder if she'll go back to sleep? _

Himself now fully awake, Tom rose from the couch and began to pace the long room, rocking Sybie gently, cooing to her, talking to her, singing her broken phrases of the Gaellic lullabies of his youth. His wanderings about the room took him from corner to corner, end to end, and finally along the full path of the bookshelves .

Somewhere along the second wall of bookshelves the tiny blue eyes began to close. Tom slowed his pace, still rocking slightly, fearful that too abrupt a change in motion might set Sybie awake and crying again.

His fears, though, were unfounded. In another few paces the tiny eyes were closed and a small fist was clasped tightly next to her cheek. Her breathing was steady and deep. She would sleep now, Tom was sure, for a few hours.

As he looked up from his daughter's tiny, sweet face, his eyes began to roam the shelves before him. There were many names that he knew here, famous English poets and playwrights. Names that were held in reverence around the English speaking world.

Perhaps that was why he had so proudly avoided these works for so long. He had never been, after all, enamored with the glorious past of England, as so many were.

_Including Sybil,_ he thought, a smile creeping across his face. _I'll never forget that night, when she found me in the garage, and we ended up arguing over the superiority of English and Irish authors._

_**Sometime between the Garden Party and York**_

He'd risen the moment that he heard footsteps approaching, brushing at his livery trousers to be sure that there was no dirt on them from where he'd been sitting.

"Branson?" She stepped across the threshold of the garage.

"Milady."

"I've come to see if you would be available to take me into Ripon tomorrow afternoon. I ordered a book when I was last in town, and was told that it would be arriving today, and I am most eager to retrieve it."

"Of course." He nodded his head slightly, allowing himself the familiarity of a warm smile.

"Thank you." She stepped further in now, her pace slow but deliberate. Reaching the workbench on the other side of the garage, she gestured to a small blue volume. "And what are you reading tonight?"

He raised his eyebrows slightly, surprised, as always, by her interest in what he was doing. "A book about the Irish Famine. I was rather surprised, I must say, to find it on your father's shelves. He doesn't exactly have what one would consider to be a large collection of Irish-centric books."

"Do you?" Her expression was quizzical.

He sputtered a bit in his response. "Well – I wouldn't say that any collection I had was large – not in the sense of what your father has, of course. Books like his are – well – I'm sure if took generations to build his library." _And many thousands of pounds, _he thought to himself wryly. "But I do have a small collection of books myself, that go with me wherever I work."

She blinked and nodded, her eyes shifting back to the blue volume on the bench, and then to his face again. "What does your collection include?"

He flushed, slightly embarrassed. "Not more than three dozen volumes. Some of them are from home. Many were gifts, from my mother, for birthdays and Christmases."

"You're lucky."

Tom turned his gaze up to Sybil's face, searching to find her expression, to know if she were mocking him. The gray blues eyes that met his, though, were honest and true.

"I suppose you must think me rude, Tom. I'm sorry. It's just that – well – no one would ever think to give me a book for my birthday, or for Christmas. It's not the sort of gift that one gives – a daughter. Or at least not in this family. I've received plenty of jewelry and lovely frocks and gloves and things, but no one has ever given me something that meant as much as a proper book would."

"I see." _She really doesn't fit in here, with them. She's so different, so…_

"I believe you do." She smiled at him sweetly, her eyes lingering on his face.

He nodded, not quite sure what to say.

"So tell me about these books. Are they all by Irish authors?"

"Mostly. A German – someone named Marx that I doubt you've never heard of – at least not from your father – and an American or two."

"I've heard of Marx, thank you." There was a challenge in her tone, though she was still smiling.

"Of course you have. I'm sorry." He blinked and one of his hands reached up and sneaked into his pocket.

"Do you never read any British authors?" She was walking again now, pacing across the floor of the garage in front of him.

His second hand reached his pocket. "I read plenty of them, when I was in school. We were all taught the glories of the British Empire." His tone was sarcastic.

"Yes. I suppose you were."

Click, click, click. Her heels resounded on the concrete.

She stopped suddenly, in front of him, and turned her body towards his. "And have you read any since?"

Tom chuckled under his breath. "A few. Your father's collection leaves me little choice. If I want new reading material, I'm afraid I must acquiesce to the tastes of the Earls of Grantham."

"Yes." She paused for a moment, wondering how much to reveal. "Your selections, though, in the library do still seem a bit one-sided. You always seem to be reading histories of this and that and politics and such. Not that I disapprove." She brought her hands together in front of herself, worrying them slightly. "I do notice, though, that you never seem to read any fiction."

_So she's willing to admit that she follows what I read. What an extraordinary girl – woman, _he corrected himself.

"I prefer stories my stories to be true."

"And you think that fiction is not? " she retorted quickly.

"Fiction is, by its very definition, not the truth."

"But it can be based on truth, can it not? Can not a fictionalized story reveal a great deal about the state of the world, and those living in it?" She was arguing a bit more passionately now.

Tom watched her carefully, wondering where this conversation was leading. "I suppose it can."

"Yes, it very well can. And I will prove it to you. For the next several weeks, you shall loan me your Irish histories, your biographies, your Marx – which I have read once already, thank you very much – and I shall supply you with a steady diet of English stories that tell truths about the world. And then you shall see that truth can come from any nation, in any form, if the writer is true."

"As you wish." There was an amused and slightly exasperated expression on Tom's face as he watched the woman before him.

"Very good." Suddenly a white hand was held out before him, offered in a way it had not been since that warm summer day. In a minute it was tightly clasped by a hand slightly more brown.

_Your mam was a determined woman, my sweet._ Tom looked down at the bundle in his arm. Reaching up with his left hand, he brushed the spines of the books before him gently, remembering some of the selections she had chosen.

In a moment his hand stopped on one title. His fingers trembled slightly as he remembered finding it in the garage one evening. _The Plays of William Shakesphere. _He'd found the volume on the driver's seat of the Renault, a pink ribbon inside of it. He remembered lifting it up, his fingers tugging on the ribbon slightly, his eyes widening with wonder at the title it marked. _Romeo and Juliet._

The memory washing over him, Tom tugged gently on the volume, lifting it from the shelf with his hand. Turning to the library table nearest, he set it down on the surface, carefully continuing to cradle Sybie, who was now sleeping very soundly in his other arm. A few moments work found the text again – the pink ribbon had disappeared from the volume before it was ever returned to the Crawley library.

His eyes began to fill with tears as they gazed at the familiar words. _A pair of star-crossed lovers…_

He read intermittedly through several scenes, his only movement to turn the pages and occasional shift Sybie from one arm to the next. More than once his eyes clouded with tears at the lovers words, their affections so strong, so true.

When he came to the end of the play he closed the book quietly and lifted its bulk again, intent on returning it to its proper place on the library shelves. As he began to lift it to its place, though, a slip of paper caught his eye. Turning to the table again to set the book down, he reached his hand in between the volumes and pulled forth a white envelope, the name on the front scrawled in Sybil's spidery hand.

_To Juliet_

_Verona, Italy_

_What could this possibly be?_ Moving to the couches by the fire, he tucked Sybie into the corner of the deeper couch, sitting down next to her, the letter in his hands.

His fingers trembled as he opened it, unsure of what he would find. He could not, however, not open the letter – it was a piece of her, after all, something from Sybil that touched, had crafted.

_York, England, 1916_

_My Dear Juliet –_

He began to read.

_I do not know why I am writing this letter, exactly, as you are a fictional character created hundreds of years ago, and I am a proper modern woman. Yet here I sit, putting pen to ink, because I must tell someone of what has happened._

_My dearest friend has proposed to me. He asked me to marry him. Up until that time I never knew exactly how much he cared for me. I know I should be rejoicing, but I cannot, as our families would not approve. We are from two very different worlds and peoples, and I do not know if we would ever be able to bridge the gap between them._

_He assures me that we can. He tells me that while my family might cast me off for a time, that they will come around, and that he will welcome them then. I know he would – I am sure he would. He would, I believe, do anything that I asked of him._

_I do not know if I can make the decision that he is asking of me. Yet I also do not know how I can live without him. He is my dearest friend, my teacher, my confident, the only person I have ever met who truly understand me. _

_I cannot fathom my life without him._

The letter was unsigned, as though she could not write any more.

_And I cannot fathom my life without you, my love,_ Tom thought, as he brought he letter up to his lips.

Yes, indeed. There were ghosts in the library tonight.


	5. Fairy Dust from the Angels

_It's been rather cold around my part of the world lately, and I keep finding myself staring out of the window, wishing it would snow. Thus I was inspired to write this fic, another of Tom's Memories, though decidedly more pleasant than some of them. It does mess with canon a bit – depending on who you ask, that is – but I somehow don't think that most of you will mind. I hope you enjoy it! Feedback and thoughts are always welcome.  
_

* * *

**Downton Abbey, late 1920**

It had been cold all day, the wind whipping about the estate. Sometime around dinner, though, it had begun to calm, and Tom found himself standing in front of one of the large windows, staring out onto the lawn. At some point during dinner it had begun to snow, and now it was coming down quite thickly, blanketing the estate in a heavy white cloth.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" Edith walked up next to him, a glass in her hand.

"It is." The words came out fast, one blurring into the other, heavily cloaked in Tom's Irish accent.

"I remember always thinking that there was something quite special about snow when I was a child. I remember one Christmas morning when we awoke to find everything blanketed in white. The three of us were so excited that we all bounded out of doors in our nightclothes before Mama or the nurse was awake. They found us all outside a bit later, half frozen, but so excited."

Tom smiled at his sister-in-law. He never tired of hearing Edith and Mary tell him stories about their growing up years, stories of his Sybil before he had known her.

"I suppose you probably played in the snow too, as a child. It might have been different, though, in the city."

Tom nodded. "It was. I remember being surprised, when I came to England, to see how different a country snowfall was."

_And how different it was to be out in the snow with someone you loved. _Turning away from Edith slightly, gazing back at the heavy white flakes falling on the lawn, Tom closed his eyes, the memory of that night rushing back over him.

* * *

It was an evening early in the winter of 1917. He remembered it so well. It had started snowing sometime during the afternoon, when everyone in the house was bustling about with afternoon chores, the nurses tending to their charges, the maids rushing about to make sure that tea would be ready for everyone.

Afternoons were the busiest time at Downton, it seemed, now that the house was a convalescent home. Tom had hoped that once the Crawleys decided to open it up to Dr. Clarkson and the nurses that he'd see Sybil more. He should have realized, though, that it would actually be the opposite. Whereas he used to be able to take her to the hospital most nearly every day, when they'd share a few brief moments of conversation in the motor, now a week or more could go by without them ever crossing paths.

He'd been out on the road when the snow started to fall, big wet flakes that covered the windshield and made it difficult to see. He'd cursed the snow at first, as he hated to drive in it. The thin tires of the motors did not handle it well, and he was always afraid that he might lose control and cause an accident.

Lady Mary was in the car at the time, returning from a visit to her dressmaker's in Ripon. She'd said nothing about the snow, of course. She rarely spoke to Branson outside of asking him to bring the car around for her use or thanking him when they returned to Downton at the end of a journey. Not that it bothered him. He doubted that he would have had much to say to her anyway.

The return trip was a bit longer than usual, as the roads began to freeze up quickly. It had been unusually cold lately, and the ground had frozen a couple of weeks before. Thus the snow not only stuck, but began to pile up quickly, covering everything in a layer of white lace.

By the time Tom returned Lady Mary to the front entrance and had pulled the motor around to the garage, the sky had begun to darken. The days were growing so much shorter now, his evenings long and sometimes a bit lonely in his cottage, with nothing save a fire and his books to keep him company.

He thought about going into the kitchen for tea but eventually decided against it, realizing that by the time he'd wiped the motor dry that the staff would be beginning to prepare for dinner.

Before he went into his cottage, though, he found himself walking along the drive a bit, gazing up at the warmly lit windows of the big house. It looked so warm, so inviting on cold nights like these. He could see the commotion inside, nurses working, their movements brisk as they worked about with the soldiers inside.

He still had not entirely acclimated himself to these English winters. At home, in Dublin, it rarely snowed. He remembered watching big white flakes fall from the sky only a few times during his childhood growing up. It was rather funny, the effect that a snowfall had on the normally busy city. The adults always rushed inside at the first flake, eager to be warm in front of the fire. The children of Dublin, though, would always flood out of the houses, eager to play in the fairyland of snow descending upon them.

While he knew he should be returning to his cottage, he couldn't help but walk a little further, his feet turning down the path that led past the drawing room window. The family would be gathering there soon before dinner, and he supposed that Sybil would be among the group. These days, even if he couldn't speak to her, he did buoy his spirits somewhat if he could at least see her, catch a glimpse of her, in the bright inside light.

Tonight, though, he couldn't seem to find her among those gathered in the drawing room. Shivering slightly, he decided after a moment of looking that he really should get inside and set about preparing some sort of dinner and then perhaps he would start that new book that he had retrieved earlier from his Lordship's library. There were worse ways, after all, to spend an evening!

It was several hours later that Tom's peaceful evening was shattered. Sitting at his small table, a pen in one hand, the book and notepaper on the table before him, he looked to be the model student, his pen poised carefully to jot down his next thought or note. Just as he was about to lower it to the page again, though, a sudden _thud_ caught his attention, and he looked up to see a glob of white on the small window next to his door.

_Must be an errant snowball._

Rolling his eyes slightly, he bent back over his book. Mrs. Patmore's kitchen staff had a tradition of having a snowball fight on the night of the first good snow. He suspected that the missile was probably an errant ball that had been lobbed rather inaccurately by one of the scullery boys or young maids.

In another moment, though, another ball hit his door. He looked up at the noise, his eye just catching movement at the dark window. And then there was a hand reaching up and knocking on the glass. Tom looked up, surprised to see Anna's smiling face at the window, waving frantically.

_Normally she doesn't get involved with these things!, _he thought. _What must they have done to bring her out into the cold? _

"Mr. Branson! Mr. Branson! We need your help! The nurses – "

She was cut off by another snowball flying through the air. She ducked just in time to miss it, the white ball thudding on the side of the cottage instead.

_The nurses._

That was enough to bring Tom up and out of his chair. Reaching for his teacup, he swallowed the last bit of warm tea inside and replaced it on the table. Striding quickly to the door, he reached for the warm wool coat that was hanging on the peg next to it and quickly began to wrap up against the cold night.

The cold air hit him full force as he opened the door.

"Down here!" Anna whispered. She was crouching now just behind the east corner of his cottage now. Tom ducked around with her swiftly, nearly upsetting the small pile of snowballs that rested at her feet. "Here! Help me return fire!"

"Haven't your heard that I'm a pacifist?" Tom joked, reaching for one of the snow balls. "Where's our target, anyway?" He squinted into the dark.

"Just fire at any of the nurses. They just all got off their shift a few minutes ago, and from what I could gather, they stumbled into the middle of the kitchen staff snowball fight. The next thing I knew Daisy was at the servants' door, yelling for more reinforcements. A bunch of us decided to come out and aid the cause. It's just too lovely of a night to be inside, anyway."

Tom looked around. Anna did have a point. Though the temperature was continuing to drop, making the night air quite crisp, the scene was beautiful. Several inches of snow had collected on the ground now, blanketing everything in a thick, clean blanket of white.

"Now!" Anna lobbed a snowball into the dark as a flash of cloth rushed by, the blue and white stripes of a nurse's uniform visible beneath an open dark wool coat.

"Damn!" The curse came from the direction of the uniform as Anna's snowball found its target. In another moment the uniform ducked behind a nearby tree.

Tom threw one of the balls in the tree's direction, hitting the tree square on, but missing the person hiding behind it.

_I wonder if there's any chance that it's her. _

Tom reached down and picked up another snowball, ready to fire if she, whoever she was, reappeared from behind the tree.

"Who all is out here, do you know?" Tom tried to sound nonchalant.

Anna shrugged her shoulders. "The kitchen staff, most of them, and then Mr. Bates and I, though I managed to lose him a few minutes ago. I think he might have gone back in, I'm not sure. And surprisingly Thomas came out, though I don't know who he's fighting for."

"That could be said of Thomas any day," Tom quipped quickly.

"True."

"And the nurses?"

Anna gave Tom an odd look. "I don't know most of their names, but I think its most of them that were on the afternoon shift. Those that were leaving, that is."

_Leaving. So she's probably not here._

Tom turned and went to stand, the warmth of his cottage suddenly soundly quite nice. _No point in spending my night out here getting soaked to the skin in the bitter cold if she's not…_

He stood up and quite suddenly found his face to be covered in snow. A laugh ran out in the air.

"Blech!" Tom reached up to wipe the white wetness from his face, sputtering. He had snow in his eyes, up his nose….

Anna turned to look at Tom, laughing at the sight before her. "Do you need help?

"I bet you can't find me!" A voice taunted out in the darkness, cutting off Tom's reply. He and Anna both turned in the direction of the voice.

"That sounds like Lady Sybil," Anna said slowly, a light beginning to dawn in her eyes. "I did notice that she wasn't at the table tonight. And when I went to attend to her upstairs, she wasn't there. I wonder if she was nursing the whole time. That would explain her absence, I guess, though I must say that I'm surprised that her Ladyship allowed her to be gone from dinner when she was still in the house."

"Did her Ladyship know she was in the house?" Tom asked, still brushing white flakes off his face.

"I don't know."

"Are you going to come and get me, then?" The voice called out again.

"Well, I suppose there's only one way to find out." And with that Tom sprinted off and towards the direction of the tree.

When he was just a few steps away from it, though, he was hit by another round of snowballs, which hit their mark on his chest.

"Good God! How many of there are you?" he muttered under his breath. Looking about him, he saw a flash of uniform, and then another and another.

"What?" Turning slightly, he tried to pick Sybil out among the fleeing forms. It was impossible, as all of the girls were dressed similarly, their differences fading in the weak light of the moon.

Tom turned and tucked himself behind a tree. Reaching down, he scooped up a fistful of the wet snow and began to form a snow ball.

As he looked up from the ground a flash of white caught his eye. He turned and threw the snowball at the person, whoever it was. In an instant he heard an "oof!" and knew he'd made contact.

"Nice job, Tom!" he heard Anna call out.

Pulling back his arm, he lobbed another snowball into the air in roughly the same direction. This time, though, the ball collapsed in mid air and fell to the ground without finding a target.

"Haha!" Another laugh rang out, this time from farther away.

_It has to be her. It just has to be…._

His determination rising, he ran off in the direction of the sound, his feet sinking into the damp snow with each step.

"Bloody cold!" he cursed out loud to no one in particular. Snow had just gotten into his boot and was in his socks now. _Sodding English winters!_

Still running, he squinted into the darkness, trying to make out where there might be another nurse lurking about. Suddenly in front of him two snowballs crossed in mid air.

"Mr. Branson! Tom! Over here! I need help!"

The voice was Daisy's. Looking around again, still searching for Sybil _as I always seem to be, _he thought wryly, Tom turned and ran towards Daisy.

"Come help me out! There's ever so many of them, and I can't…"

Smack! A large snowball hit Tom in the back of the head. He turned quickly in the direction of its origin.

"Good Lord!" Daisy cried out as a second snow ball hit Tom. "Someone's got it out for you!"

_And I know exactly who it is, _he thought. _And now I have snow down my collar, running down my back…_

"I'll get you!" he called out into the darkness.

A laugh rang out to the left of him, and then another. He turned his head slightly. _No, I don't think so. _Rushing behind the shelter of another tree, he stood still for a moment, watching as Thomas ran out into the open. Smack! A snowball from Daisy hit him square in the face, causing him to curse loudly.

_I wonder how long she's been waiting to do that!_ Grinning, Tom watched as Daisy lobbed another cold missile in Thomas's direction, hitting her target a second time.

"Well done Daisy!" he called out.

_Shit._ A snowball hit the tree, just short inches from him. _Shouldn't have opened my mouth._ Tucking down, he gathered up snow and formed a tight ball, sending it off in the direction of the nearest tree. He heard a squeal and then saw a bit of striped skirt dart off.

_It wasn't her. She would have called out again, I'm sure._

Still, though, he watched the uniformed girl run off, not completely satisfied until he saw a flash of blonde hair under the girl's headscarf as she stepped into a pool of moonlight.

_She must be around here somewhere. _Looking around, Tom noticed a small stand of bushes nearby. _That would be a good place to hide, _he thought, running off in their direction.

In another moment he ducked behind them, crouching down as low as he could, without actually sitting on the snow. Flipping up the wide collar of his coat, he tried to hide as much of his white skin as possible from the light.

Here it was peaceful, if only for a few moments. Tom worked quietly to build up a small pile of snowballs which he threw only when someone stepped close enough to be well within his range. He grinned in satisfaction as he caught several of the nurses who were running by at one point, as well as landing another snowball on Thomas's dark head.

Eventually the bulk of the fight seemed to move a bit away from his bush and closer towards the house. The moon had shifted behind a cloud temporarily, and in order to see anything, it made sense to move closer to the warm light cast out from Downton's big windows.

Tom let himself relax a bit, enjoying the silence that was enveloping his little hideout. _I wonder where she went,_ he thought, staring out into the darkness. _I just know that the voice we heard was her, but I suppose she's probably joined everyone else up by the house now so –_

Just as Tom went to stand, a rather large snowball hit him squarely in the shoulders, followed by another.

If he'd been standing or sitting, either one, he probably would have been alright. But half rising, as he was, the two white missiles were just enough to cause him to lose his balance and tip over into the soft snow.

"Sybil?" he said weakly as he reached up to rub his head with his hand. He could feel the laughter bubbling up in his chest, about to escape.

And then she suddenly she was there, on her knees in the snow next to him, leaning over him, a handful of snow in her hands.

Tom's breath caught in his mouth. _My God, if you've got to go, what a way…._

So intent was he in watching her, soaking in her proximity and starring into her sparkling eyes that he completely missed the fistful of snow that she now brought up to his face.

"White wash!" she cried, rubbing the snow across his face, across the front opening of his collar. He felt some of it even trickle into the front of his coat, between the buttons.

When he could breathe again he laughed, and then they were both laughing, so hard, behind their little private outcropping of bushes. "You little minx!" he teased her, reaching his hands up to defend himself from another shower of snow. Sybil dumped more on him, her hands hovering over his face, for a moment.

"Gotcha!" Tom's hands darted out and grabbed her own, holding her wrists. Sybil threw back her head, the laughter coming so fast now that she was shaking, as Tom was too.

With a twist of his body Tom managed to throw her into the snow next to him, so they were both lying there, one next to the other in the snow, arms and legs spread, as though they were two children making snow angels.

"Oof!" Sybil reached up to feel for her headscarf, which had now flown off. Her brown curls had mostly escaped her pins and was lying spread out around her, the dark contrasting vividly with the white snow.

Rolling onto her side so she was facing Tom, Sybil grinned. "I suppose I look a fright! But it's worth it. What a glorious night!"

"Aye." _God she's beautiful, _Tom thought. His hand began to reach forward, as though of its own power, to touch some of the dark locks. He got within a few inches of her face when she caught the motion out of the corner of her eyes.

Misinterpreting his actions, Sybil reached up and caught his hand, and then the other, in her own. Her legs tangled in her skirts, though, and she next found herself half lying on Tom, her legs twisted, her head and shoulders on his chest, his wrists still in her hands.

"I'm sorry Tom, I –" She started, but then stopped. Pressing his hands back into the snow, she pushed herself up and off his chest, mostly.

They were both silent for a moment, neither sure what to say. And then quite suddenly Sybil leaned down over him and kissed him, softly, fleetingly. Her hair fell to create a dark curtain, shielding their faces from anyone who might see.

Tom breathed in sharply as she pulled back. _My God. She just –_

And then she stood, and with a last shaky smile in Tom's direction she ran off swiftly, into the darkness.

_Holy –_

And there Tom lay for the next several minutes, his mind reeling, his body coursing with warmth despite the cold.

* * *

Edith cleared her throat slightly, breaking Tom's train of thought. "I'm sorry." He glanced around to his sister-in-law. "I was just remembering a time several years ago, a night when it snowed, when…." His voice trailed off, a little shaky.

Edith turned back to face the window. "She always loved the snow too – Sybil. I remember when she was young she told Mama quite seriously one day that snow was fairy dust, sent from the angels in heaven to make people happy."

A tiny smile crossed Edith's face as she smiled at the glass. Her voice trembled slightly as she began to speak. "I'm sorry Tom, I shouldn't have-"

"No. I – I like to think that she was right." Gazing out across the dark lawn, the image of that night burned into mind, the soft feel of her kiss settling on his lips again, Tom smiled weakly, his face melancholy, but his eyes lit with joy. "I pray to God that she is there, sending us her love and happiness, even now."


	6. From the Attic

_Do you remember the comment Mary made in episode 3.08 about searching the attics for some things for the estate manager's cottage, when Tom was still planning on moving himself and Sybbie there? That comment, combined with my love of Irish music, inspired this next story for Tom's Memories. If you're looking for the proper mood music for this piece, I recommend the Thistle and Shamrock podcast online. It's an NPR program that includes music from Ireland, Scotland, and many other Gaelic cultures.  
_

* * *

His hand reached out to touch it, his fingers trembling slightly. The moment they made contact with the case, he knew that this was it.

The memory of it had come to him earlier, when Mary had made a comment about finding some things for him up in the attic. _The attic. I wonder if that's where she put it…_

And so he had come up, later that afternoon, having arrived back at the house too late for tea, and yet still much too early for dinner. Anna had given him directions as to how to find the entrance for the space, and where one might look for such an item once he was there, as even the attics of Downton were vast.

It hadn't taken him too long to find it, following her clear instructions. His eyes drank in the dark form. _I'll never forget the evening when….. And then the morning she told me…._

He sank down on his knees then, oblivious to the dust that would be transferred to the pants of his brown suit. It was dirty and dark up here – very dark, in the shadows. The afternoon sun was beginning to sink in the sky, very little of it reaching the tiny windows up in the attic.

The feel of the case under his finger tips again made his eyes close. Instead of seeing more darkness, though, Tom felt a rush of light before his eyes. He always did, it seemed, when a memory of Sybil came to mind. Even in death, to him, she was the light of his world – the beckoning light that called to him and had once made him feel so loved and so carefree. He felt his shoulders relax then, and sank down a bit more. _I will let myself remember her, and love her still._

The darkness would not come again until later, when the memory had passed, and he was alone.

He traced the edge of the case with his fingers, outlining the odd shape of it with his hand. _She must have returned it up here before we left. _He remembered giving it back to her that morning, when she'd come out to the garage to go over their plans for the evening one last time.

_Come in after dinner, when everyone is in the drawing room. The door will be closed, and it won't do to knock, so you'll simply have to come in on your own._

He'd made a cheeky joke about this, something about the fact that he'd always managed to turn his own doorknobs before. It had been enough to make her smile, in that tense moment.

_And I promise, I'll stand up and come to you, Tom._ Her voice had trembled as she'd said it. _I promise that I'll come and stand with you, and we'll tell them, together, that we're leaving. For Ireland. Together._

He remembered crossing the short space between them in the garage then, and taking her in his arms, kissing her forehead, rubbing her back, trying to quell the agitation in them both.

The rest of the day had passed in a blur until that evening, when he'd walked into the drawing room so purposefully, and had been beaten so badly by the words that assailed both of them. _Bowing and scraping….seducing….live with him…._ Yet even in that dark moment, he'd been so proud of her, so proud of her love, as she stood and defended him, defending them, promising her family that nothing would change, and she would still feel the same in the morning.

And it hadn't. Things had not changed until many months later, when they were back at Downton, and she slipped away from him, leaving the life of their daughter for him as her final parting gift.

A tear fell onto the dusty case, leaving a clean line as it slid across the cover and down the side.

_And now I'm living here, with Sybbie, and they are, in odd ways, becoming my family. All brought together, by a common love of Sybil, and now Sybbie. Our memories of the one, and our hopes for the other._

Reaching for the handle, Tom clasped it tightly and moved to stand. The boards squeaking loudly beneath his feet, he walked over to one of the windows. There was an old chair there, something frayed and faded that had apparently passed out of fashion at some point in time. Sitting on the edge of it rather tentatively at first, and then sliding back when he realized its strength was still solid, Tom placed the case on his lap. He opened it slowly, remembering the picture of her hands on it, the first night she'd brought it to the garage. The way her slender fingers fussed with the latches as she smiled excitedly at him, pleased with herself for bringing Tom something that might bring him some joy.

The late afternoon sun shone on the wood inside the case as it became visible, catching some bits of the glossy finish and making them shine. His fingers traced the patterns of light on it, and a small, bittersweet smile crossed his face as he remembered.

* * *

**Downton Abbey, Sometime During the War**

He wondered for a long time, afterwards, how long she'd been standing there. He'd been puttering about the garage for a long while that evening, straightening up his work bench, polishing the Renault again, and generally trying to keep his mind busy.

It had only worked, though, to an extent. Today had been a rather difficult day – but then again, it always was, this anniversary. Today marked the anniversary of his father's death, many years before, when Tom just was a boy standing on the brink of manhood.

Had he been at home, he was sure that his mother would have made them all go to Mass. They'd light candles at the Madonna alter afterwards, and pray for his father's soul. Then they'd go home and have a dinner of shepherd's pie, his father's favorite meal, and then after dinner they'd gather around and sing the songs that their father had taught them when they were young.

As Tom worked, he found himself wondering what his father would think of him if he could see him now. _And what he'd think of Sybil._ Tom grimaced a bit. He was not quite sure what his family would have to say, or any of them, for that matter, when and if he announced someday that he would be returning home, to Ireland, with his bride, an English aristocrat. _Probably something similar to what I would have said a few years ago, if anyone told me that._

He grabbed the broom now, sweeping rigorously, as though trying to sweep out the demons in his mind. So absorbed was he that he didn't even see her until the broom brushed against her shoes.

"Sybil!" He looked up, rather taken aback at her presence. "How long have you been?"

"Long enough," she smiled a teasing smile. "And why didn't you tell me you sang? You've been humming quite nicely for awhile now."

"You heard that? How long have you been…?" he trailed off. He'd been singing to himself earlier, as he tidied up bench, a song that his father had loved.

"Long enough, as I said. I was rather surprised – normally you hear my footsteps ten feet away!" she teased sweetly.

"I'm sorry. I was a bit distracted. Today is the – " He stopped himself. _Why should I tell her? Would she even care to hear my sad story about…_

"What?" She stepped a little closer to him, the tone of her voice dropping as she saw the melancholy expression on his face.

_No, I should. I'll have to tell her someday, I suppose. _Tom cleared his throat ever so slightly. "My father died on this day, many years ago."

Sybil's hand moved and in a moment was resting on Tom's arm comfortingly. "I'm sorry. I expect it never gets much easier, despite the number of years that have passed."

"No, it doesn't. Not much, at least." Tom looked down at the hand on his arm. Leaning the broom up against the closest wall, he placed his other hand over it, his touch light, as though he was afraid that it might fly away at the fell of his palm. He blinked quickly, not quite sure if it was his sorrow or her touch that made his emotions suddenly swell.

"I'm sure he was a fine man." Sybil's voice brought Tom's head up again. He found a steady gaze holding his.

"He was."

"He has a fine son."

Tom felt his heart lurch. Opening his mouth to speak, he found himself at a loss for words.

Sybil, noting his distress, turned up the corners of her mouth slightly. "Did he teach you that song? The one you were singing?"

Tom nodded. "He taught us all to sing. Claire, my sister, is the one with the beautiful voice, though. I've always been more like Mam. My voice is serviceable, but nothing special."

"Did you sing together often?"

The broom slid to the floor, making a great noise that startled them both, causing them to each step back slightly and break the touch. Tom leaned over to pick it up.

"We did. We'd all sing, Mam too, and Da would play."

He was walking back to the bench now, the broom in his hand. Opening the door to a small closet next to it in the corner, he tucked the broom inside.

Sybil followed behind him, keeping a few paces away, but still close. "Play?"

Tom turned and for the first time that night, his blue eyes smiled. "Da played the fiddle. He had been given one years before, when he was a lad, by a family friend, I believe. I never met him, but Da always spoke warmly of him when he'd get out the fiddle to play."

"And did he teach any of you to play?"

Tom nodded. "Aye. He taught me, actually. I was never as good as he was, but I could scratch out a tune. In fact when Da died, I played the next year, and we all sang again. I still remember it clearly."

Sybil watched Tom carefully, noting the sudden change in his expression at the memory. She stayed silent a moment, happy to let him revisit the moment in peace.

Finally Tom broke the silence. Resting back on the workbench, he folded his arms over his chest. "That was one of the last times we sang all together. It wasn't long after that we began to move out of the house, to take jobs and earn our own ways."

Sybil nodded, not quite sure what to say.

"Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever be together again like that. Perhaps, someday. I wonder if I'll remember any of the songs by then, if I'll still be able to play them."

"Do you have it – your father's fiddle, I mean?" Sybil asked softly.

Tom shook his head. "No. Not much call for a chauffeur who plays Irish tunes in England, now is there?"

Sybil shook her head, a thoughtful look forming on her face.

"No, I suppose not."

* * *

They didn't see one another again for another week. It was a Wednesday evening, and Sybil had worked a late shift at the hospital. They rode home together in the motor in silence, both tired from a long day and the late hour.

When Sybil stepped out of the motor, though, instead of thanking Tom as she normally did, she squeezed his hand and said "May I come see you in the garage in a few minutes? I have something inside that I want you to have."

He flashed her a quizzical look, wondering what she might be planning. "If you wish…."

"I do." She smiled and walked quickly towards the front door.

True to her words, she was in the garage within ten minutes, her tired step buoyed by her mission. Tom watched as she stepped into the light of the garage, one arm bent behind her back.

She walked over to where he was standing, next to the door of the Renault, and stopped right in front of him. Finding his eyes, she held them steadily, her expression pleased, and something else that Tom could not quite decipher.

"I wish I could give this to you, but in truth it is Papa's – as everything at Downton is. But I do wish you to have it, as long as you are here. No one else uses it, or even knows it's there, probably. And certainly none of us would know how to make music with it."

As she spoke she drew her arm down slowly, twisting it slightly so the violin case in her hand was before him. "Please."

Tom stood still, not sure what to say next. "You didn't have to…"

"It's from the attic. But it's wasted up there. And if you had it, you could make your music with it, again. So you can practice, for when you see your family again someday." She smiled warmly.

_And will you sing with us, then? _He tried to picture her there, sitting in his mother's parlor, his siblings and their spouses and children gathered around. _Will you be a part of my family by then, my love?_

A smiled played on his lips. It was a beautiful picture. "Sybil, are you sure…" he began.

"Of course. Come." Reaching out for his hand, she led him over to the workbench. She placed the case on the clean surface, and began fussing with the lock.

"I took it into Ripon the other day and had it cleaned and restrung. It should be in quite proper order."

"So that was what your mystery errand was about?" He grinned at her. _She really planned this all, just for you, my lad. _He felt his heart swell a bit.

Opening the case, Sybil reached inside and removed the old violin. "For you to use, at least as long as you are here. Until you return to Ireland, and have your father's fiddle back."

_Until we are in Ireland._ He reached forward slowly, his eyes puzzling over the beautiful woman before him. "Until Ireland," he said softly.

As his hands closed around the neck, though, she continued to hold tight. A teasing smile crossed her face. "But only if you play for me."

"If you wish." He smiled in reply. _The things we do and say in this garage. _"But I have a condition for you, too."

"Yes?" Her eyes held his as his hand brushed hers on the neck. Slowly she released her fingers, until the instrument passed from her grip to his.

"I will teach you the words, and then you must sing with me. If you want me to play, then you must be my family and sing."

Sybil blushed prettily. "If you wish."

"I do."

* * *

Tom could hear her still, as he watched the sun lowering in the sky, her breathy voice stumbling, at first, over the unfamiliar Gaelic sounds. It had only taken a few evenings for them to both start to feel comfortable in their new roles, she as songstress, he as her accompanist.

The fiddle – or the violin, as she called it – had a rich, mellow sound to it. Tom still remembered drawing the matching bow across it the first time, and the delight in her eyes as the garage suddenly filled with lilting music.

He'd taught her many songs, songs of longing and loss and betrayal and love. A few lusty sea ballads, which always made her blush prettily as she sang then. And a few lullabies that nearly broke his heart when he imagined her singing them someday to the children they would make.

_Lullabies that she never had a chance to sing to Sybbie._

_Sybbie._

_I should - _

Tom's shoulders straightened slightly at the thought. With another quick glance at the window to check the sun, he closed the case, rose from the chair and began to make his way quickly towards the attic door. _I should have time to go to the nursery, then, and play a song or two for her, before she goes to sleep. I can start to teach her the music of her grandparents – the music that her mother and I – the beautiful, beautiful music, that we used to all make, together-_

And somehow, somewhere, Tom knew that Sybil would be singing along.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! _


	7. A White Dress and a Waltz

_This chapter is dedicated to dustedoffanoldie, who recently discovered Tom's Memories and asked if I intended to write more for it. Thank you for inspiring me to come back and visit this series again!_

_For those of you who have been reading along with this story, this chapter does mark a shift, in which Tom is no longer simply remembering Sybil on his own, but beginning to share some of his stories of her with her family. I think it is a natural change, that would have been born as time passed._

_As of this chapter, at least, this fic is not S3 Christmas Special compliant. (Not that anyone probably minds…)_

* * *

**Downton Abbey, the winter after Sybil's death**

"Tom? I wonder if I might have a word?"

Tom looked up from the stack of papers that he had been reading to see his sister-in-law standing at the door to his office. Unlike Matthew, who worked downstairs in the library, at a desk near Lord Grantham's, Tom preferred to do his estate business in a quieter setting. While he loved Downton's library, he found it difficult to concentrate there sometimes, the room still full of too many memories of his beloved wife.

He also liked to spend as much time with Sybbie as possible, and had thus created an office for himself in the bedroom adjoining his own, on the second floor in the gallery. It was a quiet space, somewhere that Tom could go where he could shut the doors and be entirely alone, if he liked, to work his books. Often when he had finished his work for the day, he would fetch Sybbie from the nursery and they would spend a hour or so rolling about on the plush rugs in the room, teasing, tickling, and playing before the warm fire.

It was still too early for such an activity today, though, as the bleak Yorkshire sun was still high in the sky. The day had been crisp, cold, and Tom needed little excuse to stay inside, warm by his books instead of out tromping about the estate.

"Yes, of course." Tom's hand kept writing, as he looked up from the papers. It took another moment for it to slow, as he finished the sentence in his log.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to speak to you now, in case you might be going out this afternoon still."

Tom's blue eyes flitted towards the window again. "No, I don't know that I'll be going out today. Too cold even for me," he said, a hint of a tease in his voice.

Mary rolled her eyes slightly at this. In the last few months, since Tom had taken over the work of managing the estate, it had become a bit of a family joke that the Irish must have thicker blood, as he seemed unafraid of nearly all of the natural elements. Should the task require it, he would troop out across the estate dutifully in rain, snow, or whatever happened to be occurring in order to get the job done.

When Lord Grantham had made the comment originally about it, Tom had bitten back a retort. It was true, indeed, that he had been raised in a world full of cold and damp at home, fostered by a poverty that English families like the Crawleys would never begin to understand. He had only gritted his teeth though, and forced a slight smile, well aware that his daughter was now warm and secure thanks to the generosity of the his wife's family.

"Well, I for one think you are smart to stay indoors today. And I hardly think you can berate yourself for it, as you are obviously hard at work in here." Mary nodded to Tom's desk, which was stacked high.

"Yes. There's always something to do," Tom said, a slightly tired look in his eyes.

"Indeed," Mary responded, looking from Tom down to her hands.

His blue gaze followed hers then. He watched as she slowly opened them to reveal a mass of small white orbs.

A smile ghosted over Mary's face as she gazed at the item she was holding, as though she was seeing something that Tom did not. He watched her, intent for a moment, wondering what she might be remembering.

A moment later she looked up, her brown eyes warmer than normal. She smiled at Tom slightly, the corners of her mouth turning up, though there was a line in her forehead, as if the gesture was almost painful.

"Anna and I have been at work today too, going through some of my things. While we were sorting, we found these," she said, not sure where to begin. Bringing one hand up slightly, she let the string of white, creamy pearls hang down before her, the end of the long loop pooling in the lap of her skirt.

Tom shook his head slightly. Putting down his pen, he tried to read the expression on his sister-in-law's face.

Mary's eyes raised then, to catch his own. "They were Sybil's. Or, at least, she was the last of us to wear them." She paused then, her eyes drifting towards the window.

Tom said nothing, sure that there was more that Mary wanted to say.

And indeed there was. In another moment she spoke again, softer. "She wore them at her coming out. We all did. But she was the last of us, of course. Just – just before the war." Mary's voice, normally so even and calm, wavered slightly then.

_Ah. Before the war._ _Such a very long time ago, wasn't it?_ Tom thought. He still said nothing, though, content to stay silent and let Mary speak.

"She was so beautiful, that night. She and Mama had been preparing, of course, for weeks – for months, really, for it. She did so well, at court, when she was presented." There was pride in Mary's voice, as she remembered her little sister. "And then at her ball…." Mary's voice trailed off slightly, her eyes watching Tom carefully. "She was so lovely. She - You should have seen her that night, Tom. She was so beautiful."

_But she was in London, and I was here._ _And even if I had been, it wouldn't have been allowed. _

Tom studied Mary carefully for a minute. "Sybil was always beautiful."

At this Mary nodded and drew a deep breath. "Yes. Both inside and out." She looked down at the necklace again, her fingers trailing through the long strand. "It's tradition, of course, to wear white when you are presented," she explained quietly, not sure how much Tom knew.

Tom nodded.

"When we returned to Downton after her season, she brought them to me, one evening. Anna had unpacked them and left them with her things, but Sybil didn't wish to keep them. She brought them back to me, and told me that I should have them, since any daughter that I might have would be the next debutante from Downton."

Her eyes, which were downcast again now, spilled over suddenly. Reaching a white hand up to her face, Mary closed her eyes and tried to gain control of her emotions.

Tom, by this point, was already out of his chair. Leaning towards Mary, he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

"Thank you," Mary said softly, a trifle embarrassed at the sudden flood of emotion. _Though it's not as if Tom doesn't still cry for he himself,_ she thought.

"Of course," Tom said, with a nod of his head. This was a pain that he understood all too well.

Taking a moment to compose herself, Mary finally raised her head again. "The truth, though, is that my daughter, should I ever have one, will not be the eldest." Mary paused slightly, her eyes settling on Tom's again. "That honour belongs to Sybbie, of course. Your - Sybil's – daughter." Mary stood then, walking slowly to stand in front of Tom's desk.

Tom stood and began to open his mouth as if to speak.

Mary noticed, and raised her hand to stop him. "I know that you do not approve of our ways of doing these things. Truthfully, I don't know that Sybil really did either, as she got older," Mary continued. "But, that being said, Sybbie is her daughter. Your daughter. And she is, thus, a daughter of Downton."

Tom nodded once at this, his hands reaching for his pockets.

"If you never wish Sybbie to come out in society, I will understand. Though if you, or she, ever does desire it, I am her aunt, and I can bring her out, without any trouble." She paused then, her smile returning even as her eyes were still full. "Regardless, though, I would like Sybbie to have these, as her mother was the last woman in our family to wear them."

Neither spoke for a moment as Mary reached her hand forward, towards Tom's. Slowly he raised his own, and opened it to her, allowing her to drop the long rope of pearls in it.

_A fistful of wealth, so freely given,_ he thought.

In another moment he raised his eyes from the pearls, so white and pure, to Mary. _Yes, _he thought. _She is very generous._ _She and Matthew both, in so many ways._ Thankfulness flooded his heart. While his situation could hardly be consider ideal, the truth was that Mary, Matthew, and Edith had all worked hard to make it the best they could.

Making a decision, Tom then spoke again, his tone lightening slightly. "You're right, of course, when you say that I never saw her that night, as much as I wish I could have. I was here, at Downton." Watching her expression carefully, he continued. "But I like to think that I was there, with her, somehow, as she danced."

A flicker of confusion lit Mary's eyes. "Whatever do you mean?"

Tom looked down at the pearls again then. "Would you – would you like to hear a story about your sister?" he asked quietly, well aware that had Mary heard about the event he was about to reveal when it actually happened that she would have strongly disapproved.

Now, though, she, like Tom, was eager to remember Sybil, whatever the circumstances. "Yes, please. Tom – please."

"Of course." Turning to towards the window, Tom began to share a memory of his beloved wife.

* * *

**Downton Abbey, Spring, 1914**

Tom's head turned at the first click of heals on the floor of the garage. She – whoever she was – was coming from the second door, at the far end of the garage.

Reaching a hand up to straighten his tie, Tom turned to the nearest motor and stared at the reflection of himself in the car's window. _Right,_ he thought, reaching for his jacket next. _Must be in proper uniform at all times…._

The heels were still clicking crisply, though their pace had slackened. He stepped out from behind the motor then, to see who it was.

She was standing still next to the Renault, her hands clasped behind her back, a timid grin on her face. "Ah, Branson. Just the man I wanted to see."

Tom felt his heart lurch slightly. _God, what I wouldn't give to hear that every day. _His happiness at her greeting, though, did little to squelch the concern that came flooding in next. Before he could stop them, his eyes left hers and traveled up her face, to her temple. _It's finally healed now, thank God,_ he thought, his eyes searching for signs of her recent wound and finding none, save a tiny white scar, which nearby disappeared into her hairline.

Trying to push back his horrible memories, the awful dreams he'd had in the nights that followed, he searched for her eyes again. "Yes. Of course. What do you need?"

An eyebrow raised gracefully, and her expression became more playful. "What do I need? You." She announced this rather matter-of-factly, catching him off guard.

"Me?" _Well, that's nice to hear,_ he thought to himself. The moment the thought entered his mind, though, he tried to push it away. After all, their combined cheek and rebellion had just nearly gotten him fired and exiled from her. _Not to mention what they would do if they realized that I'm falling in love with - _

"Well?" Her impatient voice broke into his thoughts. "Are you going to ask me what I need?"

_God, she's gorgeous,_ Tom thought, the little bit of resolve that he had managed to bring about quickly melting. Bringing two well-toned arms up to cross in front of his chest, Tom allowed himself to adopt a more informal pose. "Well, you just said that you needed me."

Sybil's eyes flickered as she blinked rapidly, eyes drifting to his arms, and then, oddly down to his feet. She took a deep breath, and then reached back up with her eyes to meet his steady blue gaze. "Yes. I do, rather. Or at least your help. And your - " She flushed, her mouth opening and then closing rapidly as her gaze wondered over his body. "Your – " They stopped on his chest for a moment, and then suddenly dropped. "Your – feet."

"My feet?" Tom asked, clearly taken aback at her odd request. _I suppose that's what I get for imagining she would think of me in such a way. _Still, though, he couldn't resist teasing her. "And what shall I do with the rest of me while you borrow those?"

Sybil giggled, and then looked around a bit nervously, as though to see if anyone else might be within hearing distance. Resolved that the garage was quiet and empty, she took another step towards him.

"I – I was wondering if you – if you would – could possibly – help me practice my – help me waltz." She exhaled then, as though she had just accomplished a major task.

Tom gave her an odd, though amused, look. "To waltz? Why in the world do you need me to – waltz?" He tried to keep his tone teasing, but the thought of it nearly took his breath away. She was asking him – _him - _to hold her in his arms and dance with her.

Sybil nodded. "Please? I know it's rather – forward – of me to ask, but I could truly use some practice before I go to London, and Papa is too busy and no one else would ever consider –" she broke off, her shoulders lifting ever so slightly into a shrug. "Please?"

Tom could feel a smile forming on his lips he spoke. "Let me get this right. You want me to – to dance with you."

Sybil nodded again. "Will you?"

Tom watched her for a moment, his mind wandering through the male staff. _I wonder if she's asked anyone else, and they turned her down. Thomas, William – maybe they said now for fear of what Mr. Carson would say if he discovered -_

Before he could speak, though, she spoke again, this time a guarded edge to her tone. "You – you do know how?" she asked, as though the thought had not occurred to her before.

This brought him back to the garage, and her. "They do teach us something, you know, back home. How to - " He stopped suddenly, his complexion turning just a bit pink. _How to romance a pretty girl._ He'd almost said it. Almost let it slip out. He swallowed hard, and then spoke quickly, as though trying to make up for the near slip. "How to dance, of course."

"Of course," Sybil repeated, taking a step yet closer to Tom. She was within touching distance now.

Tom waited a moment to see if she could make the first move, to be the first to touch him. When she didn't, he slowly let one of his hands move forward, until it rested lightly on her waist.

He could feel her watching the movement, the touch, as his hand settled there. He heard, rather than saw, the tiny sound escape from her lips. Too afraid to look at them, for fear he might be able to resist the urge to kiss them, he let his gaze fall on her hand.

"Well, then I'll need your hand, of course." Tom reached out then, and took the hand she now held up, waiting, in his own.

"Yes." She said it quietly, but firmly.

"And you'll want to rest the other on my arm – shoulder."

"Yes. That is – " She blushed prettily as she raised her hand up to his shoulder, bringing it to rest on the green wool.

"Good. Now – " Tom said, not entirely sure what to do next.

She, though, didn't hesitate. "And one, two, three," she counted off.

Tom stepped forward, willing his feet to move, to waltz, automatically, knowing that his mind was far too busy admiring her, trying to deal with the fact that Lady Sybil Crawley was in _his arms_, to think of anything else. In fact such was his distraction that in only a few steps before he managed to lead himself into the back end of one of the motors, causing them both to laugh.

"I don't suppose I'm being much help," he said a bit woefully, as he leaned against the car, trying to keep the tension that had just broken in their laughter at bay.

"No, you're fine," Sybil said softly, her hand reaching back up to his shoulder, from whence it had just dropped. "Please. Don't stop."

_Not for a million pounds,_ Tom thought. Glancing around the garage, he searched for space that he could not seem to find. _Surely there must be some way that we can manage in here. Surely -_

It was as if the spaces between the work surfaces and the motors all shank then, under his eye.

Sybil, though, quickly found the solution. "You should just move one of the motors outside. Or both. Then we'd have plenty of room."

Tom looked at her a bit dumbly. "Yes. Of course. Please – " Reluctantly pulling his hand from her waist, he brought it up to his shoulder to remove her own. "Please – wait right."

"Of course. I can hardly leave without a proper lesson, now that I've asked and made all this fuss." She gestured around the room with a flitting hand as Tom reluctantly dropped it. "I'll wait."

It only took a moment, and Tom was in the driver's seat of the Rolls, pulling it out of the garage and into the sunlight. Looking around to verify that no one was watching, he ducked back in then and did the same with the Renault, parking it behind the garage, where it would be hidden from the house.

Pulling the large doors shut, Tom entered the garage again a bit breathless.

"Much better," Sybil nodded, walking towards him. "Now – where were we?"

_Your hand was on my shoulder, the other hand in mine, and I was thinking about how I was going to dream about this tonight. How it will torture me, the memory of it. How it will make it impossible for me to see you again without wanting to touch you._

Tom, for once at a loss for something that he could actually say, stood silent, letting Sybil take control.

Which she did, quite nicely. Slipping her small hand back into his, she stepped towards him, their bodies nearly touching. Her other hand stopped for just a moment at the top of his chest, before she let it rest lightly on his shoulder.

This time neither of them spoke a word. Tom simply tightened his grip on her, and they both stepped together, their bodies finding the same rhythm.

As they began to waltz around the garage, Tom let himself fully smile at Sybil then, relaxing into the grin that she gave him in return. Her eyes, however, did not stay long on his face, as she glanced about them, and then down at her feet, making sure that they were doing as she wished.

"No, no," he scolded slightly, making her glance back upwards. "Your eyes need to stay up. Trust yourself to take the steps. Watching won't help. Just – trust me."

She nodded, blue gray eyes meeting blue, and locking.

"You – you've done this before," she said quietly, as their feet continued to move.

"No," Tom smiled at her, his eyes full of love. "No, I've never done _this_."

* * *

"I'm not really sure how long we danced, that afternoon," Tom said, his voice fading.

An appreciative smile on her face, Mary tilted her head ever so slightly. "I do think you're right, you know," she said, bringing Tom's glance back around to hers again. "She did think of you, that night in London. I'd forgotten about it until now, but I remember a situation that would make perfect sense, knowing that, now."

Tom cocked his head to the side, a look of wonder on his face. "Tell me, please," he pleaded quietly, glad to share his memory in exchange for another.

"It was when she went to dance with Papa, for her first dance. I remember they lead everyone out onto the dance floor, and danced together, a waltz. When the dance was over, they were standing right next to me, and I remember Papa leaning towards her and telling her, a pleased expression on his face, how much her dancing had seemed to improve."

"Did she." It was a question and a statement all at once.

"She did." Mary nodded. "I remember that he asked her if she'd been taking secret lessons, or something of the sort. She had the oddest look on her face – a bit startled, but also very pleased, as if she were seeing something that no one else could just then – but she never replied. She just kissed Papa on the cheek and turned away, before he could say anymore." Mary's hand traced idly along the front edge of the desk. "I remembering wondering at the time who it might have been, that the memory of him could put such a look on her face. I never remember thinking that I had seen her look quite that way, before that night."

Turning back towards the window, Tom tried to picture the scene in his mind. His beautiful Sybil, dressed in white. Yes – that was a scene that he had witnessed. The memory of it filled him, and he felt his eyes wet.

Moving to stand next to him, Mary reached out and gently squeezed her brother-in-law's hand in hers. "You always made her smile, Tom. Whenever she'd think of you – that was all it took to make her happy."

The dark blonde head next to her nodded, but no sound passed his lips. His heart was too full to speak.

* * *

_I know don't know that Tom would have told Mary quite all of the details that I shared with you, about his waltz with Sybil, but I wanted to give you all of the details. I hope you enjoyed it._


End file.
